Monday, March 13, 2006

Bringing It In

*

In the story, the man is learning how to use a hammer and an anvil. There are marks on the hardsurface of the anvil where steel has scored steel.The man imagines the blows from the hammerthat made the metal scar another metal.

He hears the ringing in his ears.

The man needs to make something, an implement.He knows that it won't happen all by itself.Force must be applied in a certain direction.There should be heat, and a bucket of cold waterinto which the thing can be plunged.

To make some steam.To make a hiss arisefrom the surface of the dark water.

To temper it, to give it strength.

And there are diagrams. Drawings and plansin blue ink on bluish paper. Angles and vectors,plotted down to a gnat's ass. The man knowsthat without a plan there's nothingto diverge from.

No point of departure.

Which is where art happens, the man believes.He picks up the hammer, hefts it in his hand,swings down hard on the flat top of the anvil,filling the small room with the bright ring

of steel on steel. He thinks of the barges moving goods on the great rivers of the East;a man on a girder swinging out over the vast emptiness of air at the topof a skyscraper being built, girder by girder,in the heart of the city.

He rubs his elbow where it tingles from the blowhe let fly on the anvil. Like somethingliving traveled up through the steel.An excitement of the axons and dendrites in the armature of his body. A taint in his blood for movement, a taste for force.

Later in the story the man can be seen workingat the anvil. Swinging the hammer with steady blows,blows like the working of a clock, the ringingof blows as regular and irretrievable as the ticking of seconds, away and away and away, as a new thing is forged.

What is the man making?It could be a sword, or a plowshare;a shoe, or a box for keeping rice.

It doesn't matter to the man.

He is making the key that Death will useto unlock the door to the Universe. He is making a flower with hard petals.He is bringing a life into this worldthe only way he knows how.

He hammers away.It shifts its shape under his blows,he puts it in the fire until it glows white; he drenches it in the bucket, listens; turns it over and over, picks a spot and hits it again.

2 Comments:

Without a plan, there is nothing to diverge from. No point of departure.

We need structure in order to deconstruct? We need rules in order to break them?

Sin would be no fun if we hadn't labeled it thusly.

Hmmmmm.

I'm thinking of that Frost poem.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I....

For some reason, too, I'm thinking of that seen from 2001 Space Odyssey in which the apes go u, ape shit, and toss the stick into the air and stick becomes the obelisk.

Or was that a bone?

One of the most terrifying pieces of nature video I've ever witnessed was of a group of chimps who attacked one of their own. It was like human beings in a riot, only worse. They kicked and stomped and bit and beat and tore at him until he was just this bloody heap on the ground.

They tore and bit off anything that would come off including ears, fingers and his penis.

What the hell am I talking about?

I don't know.

I keep wondering if that's how my heart sounds right before I fall asleep. Louder than loud and aloner than alone. Like a hammer striking an anvil.

What's he building in there?What the hell is he buildingIn there?He has subscriptions to thoseMagazines... He neverWaves when he goes byHe's hiding something fromThe rest of us... He's allTo himself... I think I knowWhy... He took down theTire swing from the PeppertreeHe has no children of hisOwn you see... He has no dogAnd he has no friends andHis lawn is dying... andWhat about all those packagesHe sends. What's he building in there?With that hook lightOn the stairs. What's he buildingIn there... I'll tell you one thingHe's not building a playhouse forThe children what's he buildingIn there?

Now what's that sound from under the door?He's pounding nails into aHardwood floor... and ISwear to god I heard someoneMoaning low... and I keepSeeing the blue light of aT.V. show...He has a routerAnd a table saw... and youWon't believe what Mr. Sticha sawThere's poison underneath the sinkOf course... But there's alsoEnough formaldehyde to chokeA horse... What's he buildingIn there. What the hell is heBuilding in there? I heard heHas an ex-wife in some placeCalled Mayors Income, TennesseeAnd he used to have aconsulting business in Indonesia...but what is he building in there?What the hell is building in there?

He has no friendsBut he gets a lot of mailI'll bet he spent a littleTime in jail...I heard he was up on theRoof last nightSignaling with a flashlightAnd what's that tune he'sAlways whistling...What's he building in there?What's he building in there?

We have a right to know...

(and if you feel up to REALLY being creeped out....this wonderful streaming video from 1999)